


From Six to Ten

by Bob en lugares (talitacortazar)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, BAMF!Sherlock, Cuddles, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Protective!Sherlock, whump!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:16:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6144247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talitacortazar/pseuds/Bob%20en%20lugares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thought it was a simple case. He is wrong and John suffers the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Six to Ten

**Author's Note:**

> Yorkiepug's prompt: "I like John!Whump and protective sherlock and cuddly, kissy fluff."  
> This is my humble attempt to fulfill her wish. I hope you like it!  
> I want to thank my beta Sussexbound (SamanthaLenore) for her help. This fic was a mess and she made it so much better!! You're my savior. Thank you!!

It’s a cold night. John’s muscles are sore from the position in which he is seated, waiting behind a wall, monitoring their client’s house. 

The suspect, in question, had proved impossible to catch in the last month, even with the help of Sherlock’s homeless network and all the police resources. The only way to catch him was to wait for his next great act. After days of being locked up in his mind palace searching for an answer, Sherlock had deduced that the thief would attack here, tonight. 

John had spent those days testing Sherlock’s response to a myriad of motivators, one even included a part of his own body between Sherlock’s hands (Sherlock isn’t the only one who loves a good experiment, after all). Sherlock had begged John to just let him finish the case, and then he would give him his undivided attention. John’s experiment proved successful, because a couple hours later Sherlock had emerged from his mind palace with a name and an address. After that, they had only to convince the house’s owner she should leave for a couple of hours, until the thief tried to steal the most prized piece of her art collection.

So, now, here they are, on a chilly winter’s night, crouched close to the window of the room where the paintings are displayed. The owner had asked to hide the painting in her safety deposit box but Sherlock insisted that everything remain the same, so as to not raise suspicion. 

According to Sherlock the thief was working alone, there was no indication of an accomplice, in any of his prior robberies. The man had disarmed the alarms, taken down the paintings and then vanished, without a trace. How hard could it be to catch him in the act? 

John isn’t happy with this plan at all. He wants more police back up. But Sherlock had been adamant that it was vital to not let the man suspect they were waiting for him.  
“Don’t be an idiot, John.. The two of us are more than capable of taking him down. I’m only letting Lestrade and Donovan in, because I don’t want to be wholly responsible for the paperwork after,” he winks, a brief reminder of his promise to ravish John’s body with attention after the case is closed. And John? Well, he never could bear to argue with Sherlock, for long…

Long hours pass, Sherlock is impatient and fidgety, his eyes scanning the area frantically. John looks at Sherlock, all his senses focusing in on the madman in front of him, this man who can see things that he can’t, a man of great talents and infinite intelligence, and even a few annoying flaws. John is lost in the contemplation of his lover and loyal companion. He should be paying attention to the streets and the window, but Sherlock is taking care of that. After all these months, John still gets lost looking at him. He admires the sharp lines of Sherlock’s cheekbones in the shadows.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s posture changes and John snaps his attention back to the task at hand.. Sherlock leans into him and whispers, eyes shining with anticipation. “He’s approaching the house. This is our moment, John!” 

In the blink of an eye they are running to the house and breaking in through the same place the thief did. 

John manages to send a prepared text to Lestrade informing him the break-in is in progress,and the plan in action, and then he and Sherlock are hurrying through the house to the room where the paintings are displayed. John, always the protective soldier (and now boyfriend) leads, gun in hand, with Sherlock close behind. John’s heart is racing in his chest, a rush of adrenaline flooding his veins. 

They have done this hundreds of times, but somehow this time feels different. They are a couple now, together in every sense of the word. They have always been an unbeatable team. From the moment they met, they were a solid unit, two halves of the same soul. But, John has come so close to losing him, so many times, . He can’t let anything bad happen to Sherlock, ever again. He promised himself, and Sherlock, and it’s a vow he doesn’t intend to break!. That’s the reason he insisted on more back up. What if something were to go wrong?  
John is alert, all his senses focussed, he can practically smell the danger lurking in the shadows. 

They climb the stairs to the office where they plan to corner their suspect. John opens the door, slowly, aiming to the darkness. Suddenly, like some sort of awful, self-fulfilling prophecy, he feels a fist ram into his gut, and a foot knock the gun from his hand. It flies to the other corner of the room, and John curses and then swiftly turns to attack the man with the mask, behind the door. John lashes out with his left, hitting the attacker square in the face, while struggling to call for Sherlock’s help. He can’t see or hear him, and that worries him more than the blows he is receiving. 

The man is tough, taller than John, and his fist connects with John’s body again, and again, until he is in a breathless heap on the floor. That is when he sees Sherlock, unconscious, a man dragging him from the room. John sees red, and throws himself against the two men attempting to bind Sherlock. John knows he’s fit, but still, he can’t beat both of them alone. However, maybe he can at least keep them occupied while someone calls for backup. Scrambling to his feet, he hurls himself at both men, fists flying. He gets in a good left hook to the larger of the two, sending him reeling backward, and uses the momentary break in action to whirl around and knee the other in the groin. But the other, larger man is recovering already, and in less than five seconds John is back on the floor, arms pinned behind his back, about to receive the beating of a lifetime. 

He readies himself for the first blow. He can do this, he can resist a couple of blows--(one) Sally and Lestrade will barge in any second, (two) they have to, John thinks while he receives a third blow to the stomach. Once Lestrade and Donovan (four) arrest these two thugs he will be free to care for Sherlock (five). The one punching him starts talking: “You think that your boyfriend is so damn smart? don’t you? Well, we set a trap for him, and he fell in so easily!” The man can punch and talk at the same time, (eight). John can’t say the same about being on the receiving end. 

John is trying so hard not to give in, not to lose consciousness. He is using his rage, and the flow of adrenaline, as fuel (nine). He can’t lose consciousness, and leave Sherlock unconscious and vulnerable. Why are Lestrade and Donovan still not here!? John wonders, , already fearing that the answer lies with his attacker. 

“Don’t wait for any help for your two little friends. We took care of them too.” He laughs, without any real mirth. John, his worst fears now confirmed, he realizes he must come up with a plan. Silently wonders when this case managed to devolve from ‘barely a 6’ to a ‘we’re-all-going-to-die 10’. Clearly there is something they missed, and now they are deep in trouble. John’s long ago lost count of the punches he’s received. He can feel the blood sticking to his face, and he isn’t sure how much more he can take. His legs are starting to give out, even though he is still managing to stay upright.

He can’t see Sherlock, he can’t see if he is breathing, or not. Lucky for John, the masked men are far too entertained punching him, to notice Sherlock. But he doesn’t have a plan yet! His head feels numb with pain and he can’t think clearly. The blood in his eyes are blurring his vision. One thought is preventing him to lose consciousness: “They can’t touch Sherlock, they can’t touch Sherlock.” His legs are about to give up, one more punch and he’ll be out. John silently curses himself, and then makes one last attempt to break free of the iron grip of his attacker. It’s useless. He’s exhausted, and his body hurts all over. There is no way he can defend himself. 

The men are laughing at him. “You can’t even stand, little, old man. When we’re finished with you we’ll take care of your pretty boyfriend. Maybe we’ll leave you just conscious enough to see that.” 

John groans, enraged, and struggles once more, and kicks the man in the groin with his last ounce of strength. Unfortunately, that does nothing more than earn him another punch in the stomach. He is spitting blood now. 

It’s over. He’s skirting the edges of consciousness. He’s failed...

But, he hears a faint rustle of clothes, behind him and, despite of the punches he is receiving, he smirks. These bloody bastards have no idea what’s about to hit them… He takes a deep breath, and stays completely still.

Suddenly, in a great flourish of movement, like a phoenix resurrected, Sherlock leaps to his feet, and with John’s gun shoots both men, one in the shoulder, and the other in the ankle.

And then, Sherlock is there at his back, and John is collapsing, gratefully into his arms. . Sherlock holds him with one arm, while continuing to point the gun at the two men writhing and bleeding in the floor. John can see fury and death in Sherlock’s eyes, and though he knows he should be concerned about his injuries, or how on earth Sherlock woke up, and why he didn’t do it sooner, John is overwhelmed for Sherlock’s power. He looks dangerous and ready to destroy anyone who dared to hurt John. John forgets about his sore body and he wants to take Sherlock in this very moment, desire engulfing him  
. 

Sherlock is not looking at him yet, but his arm is firm around John’s waist, holding him tight against his side, and John feels instant relief in that small gesture, breathing in Sherlock’s scent, feeling his heart beating and John’s own beginning to instinctively match it’s rhythm. Together they compose a melody only they can hear. John wants to laugh at his own hopeless sentimentality, but the pain in his jaw prevents him.

“Don’t worry John, our backup will be here soon..” As though materialising at Sherlock’s behest, a team armed with guns and bulletproof vests barges into the room and subdues their attackers. Finally, John thinks they will be alone, but no. Lestrade and Donovan, follow on the heels of the others, looking completely fine, which comes as a huge relief. 

 

Lestrade looks him up and down with a scowl. “Jesus, John. You look like shit. What happened? John can tell he’s worried but he can’t muster the strength to speak, a grunt will have to suffice.But Sherlock has a one or two things to say:  
“Where the hell were you?!? Your pathetic back-up nearly got John killed!!!! Do you think this is a game?! John could be dead, right now, if we had relied solely on those incompetent half-wits, you call officers!”  
John can hear panic under all the bravado and fierce anger in Sherlock’s voice, and though he can’t speak, he does manage to move a hand comfortingly to Sherlock’s chest. The simple gesture is enough. Sherlock drops the gun and pulls John to him, emotions whirling in John’s head. He can’t process everything that happened, but he needs to feel Sherlock close to him. John puts his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and clings to him, Sherlock’s smell like home, and danger, everything he wants, everything he needs to feel alive.

Sherlock’s face is buried in his neck and he hears his muffled voice “Let’s go home, John.” He nods, and they leave. A trail of paramedics try to get John in an ambulance, but Sherlock barks at anyone who tries to get near. John let’s him, partially because he is a doctor, and knows his injuries are not at all serious, and because the only attention he needs and craves is Sherlock’s. 

The cab ride home is silent, Sherlock’s arm never leaves John’s shoulder, and John leans against him, their bodies touching head-to-toe. They hold hands. There is an unspoken need to feel the other’s warmth, their breath, their heart beating. 

John presses against Sherlock, a little closer, and Sherlock hugs him a tighter still. He rubs his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles, a secret code: “We’re okay, we’re alive, we made it again.” 

Once they are inside Baker Street, Sherlock insists he should carry John. John, of course, refuses, because no matter how sore he is, he still has his dignity. Sherlock scowls but he indulges him. John climbs, one, two, three steps before his legs fail him, and he curses under his breath.

“John, could you please me let me help you? What’s the point of being--what it is we are now, if you won’t let me help you when you are most vulnerable, when you need it the most?” Sherlock’s voice is tender, barely a whisper. He is holding John by the waist, and John thinks his heart may explode with all the love he feels for this beautiful madman, in this moment. He decides he has no choice but to surrender to Sherlock’s plea.

Sherlock carries him into their flat, and then to their bedroom, and John finds that he enjoys the entire experience, far more than he likes to admit. He enjoys the feeling of Sherlock’s strong arms around him. He loves to press his ear against Sherlock’s chest and hear his heart beating. There is nothing he wouldn’t give to hear that sound every day until his last. 

Sherlock gently lays him on the bed, and takes off his coat and scarf. Then he removes John’s coat and shoes. 

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He tries to relax, he’s home now. Sherlock will take care of him, and everything will be fine. Sherlock returns to the bedroom with John’s first aid kit. He helps him take off his jumper and shirt. and then he begins to tend to John’s bruised, and bloodied face.

Many years of adventures together have trained Sherlock on how to patch up both of them. John doesn’t bother guiding him anymore. He lets himself enjoy the view in front of him, distracting him from the pain in his face, and torso. Sherlock’s movement are gentle and delicate, his face the perfect example of concentration. John smiles and put his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. 

“John, why are you smiling? Your face is a mess, and I’m trying to fix you. Stay still!” Sherlock reprimands, but he leans on John’s hand seeking for more contact, all the same.

“You look so beautiful when you’re patching me up.” John longs to kiss those hands, those lips. 

“John, I could be washing the dishes and you’d say I look beautiful. Let me work, and shut up.” John knows Sherlock loves to be praised, he notices how he blushes, and smiles every time John compliments him.

“If I saw you doing the dishes I would say you look like a miracle!” And just like that they are both giggling like idiots in love. Sherlock’s fondness for John’s bad puns never cease to amaze him.

“John, please let me finish cleaning the blood around your eyes,” Sherlock begs.  
Once he is done with his face, Sherlock helps him to remove his vest and John can’t help but wish that he could spare him the colorful spectacle of his torso. He has bruises everywhere, and he knows it looks worse than it really is. At least he doesn’t have broken ribs. 

“John…” Sherlock’s voice trembles, his eyes are full of rage, worry, sadness, love. 

“Love, please, don’t worry. I’m okay. I swear. I know this looks nasty, but I swear I’m fine. No broken ribs, no nothing. Just bring me some painkillers and come to bed, okay?” John tries to sound calm and cool, but inside he can feel his anxiety rising, because he doesn’t want to see Sherlock like this ever again, once is enough for a lifetime.

Sherlock retreats to the bathroom and comes back with a glass a water and two pills. John takes them and watches Sherlock undress, until he is fully naked. He marvels, once again, at the man before him. He still can’t believe this beautiful creature adores him, trusts him with his life. 

Sherlock moves to the bed and reaches for John’s belt. John watches those nimble fingers work to loosen the clasp, and then unzip his jeans. In one fluid motion Sherlock takes off John’s jeans, pants, and socks. Then he maneuvers both of them under the sheets and the duvet. 

“Love, you’re going to explain what the hell happened tonight? Because I still don’t understand who those guys were, and why they wanted you.”  
“John, I’ll explain what I suspect tomorrow, but right now I would much prefer to help you feel better”.  
After that is all soft moans, wet and hungry kisses, hands touching in all the right places, Sherlock’s full lips around his cock, giving him the healing pleasure he needs, a galaxy of stars exploding behind his eyelids, as he comes.

When his head clears, and he comes back to his senses, John gives Sherlock one more kiss before asking, “What about you, love?” 

“We have all the time in the world, John. All I want now is to watch you sleep beside me.” The kiss Sherlock bestows John, is so soft and gentle that he feels his throat tighten and tears form in his eyes.

Sherlock wraps himself around John, avoiding his bruises, and clings to him, and John lets his eyes droop with exhaustion. He knows Sherlock won’t sleep. He knows he’ll spend the night watching him. John doesn’t mind. He loves to feel protected by Sherlock. If they are together no one can hurt them.


End file.
